by Peter Watson
The fact that Michael was thinking meant he was, in some sense, recovering. He turned his attention to the rope that bound him. He was only now beginning to take in Grainger’s cleverness in covering the knots in the rope with tape. Michael could just feel its slipperiness with the tips of his fingers. Grainger was a strong man – he seemed at times almost wholly made up of long bones and stringy sinews – and he had tied Michael’s feet and hands very securely. Without the tape, however, it would probably have been possible, given time, for Michael to find one of the ends of rope binding his feet and then gradually dislodge the knots. Michael couldn’t feel the end of the rope under the tape. For a long time, he couldn’t even find the edge of the tape, so that he could start to unwind it.
It must have been a full twenty minutes before he found the join. He was groaning in frustration long before that. Then, for the next five or six minutes, he worried at the tape, trying to wedge his fingernail under the join, to dislodge it so that he could get enough free to pull on it. In the confined space of the boat it was difficult, even painful, to manoeuvre. Ridges of fibreglass ran like ribs around the hull and often cut into his arms when he moved, so that he occasionally had to stop. Nor could he wriggle too much. The launch wasn’t large and if he moved too suddenly Grainger would be able to detect it.
Eventually, however, after what must have been three-quarters of an hour, he freed enough of the tape to pull with two fingers. Slowly it came away. He unwound it halfway around his ankles . . . three-quarters . . . the whole way. Suddenly the tape came away in his hands. Thank God! He reached with his fingers for the rope.
No! What he found almost made him weep. There was another layer of tape. Now he had to start all over again, searching for the join, prising it up with his nail, unwinding it.
While he was struggling, Michael suddenly detected that it was getting light. He could see bushes going by on the bank outside and he could now make out Isobel’s features. He could see her frightened eyes above the tape around her mouth as she watched him struggle. The fact that they could not speak to each other made their situation more pathetic. If they could have talked they could have shared their misfortune. As it was, they were each locked away, alone, with their fear and their inability to hit back at Grainger.
Michael, though, had now found the join in the second piece of tape and was prising it apart with his thumbnail. Though it was summer, because it was early morning and they were on a river it was very cold. His fingers were by no means as supple as they might have been and it took him another half-hour to free enough of the join so that he could start pulling with his fingers.
As he was doing this, he noticed, through the window of the launch, an oil tank slipping by. He recognised the tank, since it was more or less where Isobel and he had ‘gone about’ in their skiff, three days before. They were coming into Wareham.
It was now fully light, though still very early. From his experience of sleeping on the couch at Peverell Place, Michael judged it must be around 5.30. What were Grainger’s plans now? Was he going to sail straight through Wareham and out into the estuary, making for the Channel, where no one could help them?
Michael redoubled his efforts. Aware that they were passing the buildings of Wareham, he unwound the rest of the tape. Yes, underneath was the naked rope. Immediately he found one end and pushed it, pulled it, poked at it, waggled it, trying to loosen the knot. He couldn’t see what he was doing and had to feel his way. After a quarter of an hour of pushing and pulling he managed to slip the end of the rope through one of the loops that had contained it. His heart leapt and he experienced a new surge of energy.
No sooner had he gathered himself for another assault on the knots than he noticed something else. The launch was slowing down. The engine tone changed and the angle of the hull in the water grew more level. Michael also felt the boat begin to turn. It slowed even further. Outside was a white forest of yacht masts; there must be a marina in the open estuary. The launch stopped completely, though the engine still turned over. Now Michael could hear Grainger moving about on deck; he got off the boat and then back on – he was tying up. Then the engine was killed.
A moment later the cabin was flooded with silver daylight as Grainger threw open the door. Michael held his breath. Grainger stooped and looked in. Holding the shotgun, he looked down at the bodies, grinned and grunted with satisfaction. Michael prayed he wouldn’t think to examine the ropes at his feet which, thankfully, were in the shadow caused by Grainger himself standing in the doorway. But neither of them had moved all night and presumably Grainger concluded that his handiwork was successful. Quickly he closed the cabin door. There were more sounds of his moving about on deck, then he stepped off the boat and on to what sounded like a wooden pontoon. His footsteps receded into the distance. Michael counted off 120 seconds to ensure that Grainger really had gone. Then he frantically resumed pulling and poking at the rope around his ankles. It was very firmly tied; Grainger was a depressingly strong man. It took Michael five minutes to finish dislodging the first knot and a further fifteen minutes to untie the other two. But then he quickly unwound the rest of the rope and rubbed his fingers over his ankles. Isobel was watching his every move.
Now that he could move his legs, he manoeuvred himself first so that he could stagger to his feet and peer out through the windows. Again, Grainger had been cunning. He had not moored the launch in Wareham at all but well out in the estuary on a pontoon where several other boats were tied up. They were about half a mile from the bank and the same distance from the nearest houses in Wareham. Even if they could shout, there would be no point; no one could hear them this far out. Sounds travelled over water, but not that far. Grainger must have taken a rowing boat ashore. Had he left them? Or was he coming back? How long had they got?
Michael didn’t waste time thinking but set to work, though still unsteady on his feet. First he leaned over Isobel and brushed his face next to her fingers, to let her know he wanted her to pull the tape off his face. Once he could talk he could give instructions. As he did this, however, he felt Isobel’s fingers clutching at the lapel of his blazer. They crawled down his jacket in a mystifying way. But Isobel’s hands were really quite strong and she clearly had something in mind so he allowed himself to be manoeuvred.
Her fingers were now at Michael’s pocket and he twisted his body so that she could delve inside. He heard keys rattle. Then Isobel grunted and the pressure on his blazer eased as she took her hands out of the pocket.
He straightened – and then grunted himself. She had found his matches. She was right, too. It had taken him for ever to undo his ankles but they might be able to burn through the ropes much more quickly.
Isobel twisted on to her side so she could see Michael round her shoulder. He held his wrists where she could both reach and see them.
She lit the first match. After a moment Michael smelled the acrid stench of the tape burning. Beneath it the rope smoked – but then the match went out. Grainger, he judged, had now been gone for an hour and a half at least. It must be 7.30 by now. Was he coming back at all?
With the second match the rope smoked a good deal more. But then the flame licked Michael’s wrist, he grunted and jerked away, knocking the book of matches out of Isobel’s hand. When he looked down, he saw that the book had fallen into the water at the bottom of the boat. No! Still, he bent and sat on the floor. The water was cold as his fingers scrabbled around, searching for the matches. He found them, clawed his fingers around them and stiffly regained his feet.
Isobel took back the matches. The first failed to strike – it was too wet. Under the tape Michael cursed. The second match failed to strike. How many did they have left? Michael couldn’t remember. The third match didn’t work either but the fourth flared. Again the flame licked his flesh but he was more prepared this time and only flinched. The smell of burning rope filled his nostrils. The match died and Isobel tried another. No luck. Michael cursed again, louder but equally incoherently.
Another two dud matches but the next one worked.
As the smell of the singeing rope again filled the cabin Michael suddenly felt the pressure on his wrists relax. Two ends of rope fell away. He pressed his fingers together and prised apart the balls of his palms. Something shifted, though he couldn’t tell what. When he relaxed his hands again, however, the ropes were definitely looser. He pulled, hoping to slide one wrist through the loops. It nearly came free but the ropes scorched his flesh.
He sank to the floor again. This time he dunked his wrists in the water at the bottom of the boat. It was more than cold, it was slimy.
He tried to ease his wrist out a second time. Nearly . . . nearly . . . suddenly the rope slipped over the oily water on his knuckles and he banged his elbow as his arm jerked free. He hardly grunted, though, as he immediately got to his feet.
Almost simultaneously he heard footsteps at the far end of the pontoon. Was it Grainger? Or someone else? If he pulled the tape from his mouth and called out and it was Grainger, that would give the game away. He decided to keep silent but tried the door that led out on deck. It was locked. He searched the cabin for a weapon. All he could see was an oar, a few cushions and a plastic buoy. The oar would have to do.
The footsteps were getting closer. They stopped for a moment. Then the angle of the launch changed. It was Grainger and he had stepped back on board. Michael waited, holding the oar, ready to rush the door.
Suddenly the cabin door opened and daylight again splashed in. But Grainger stood back, his gun covering both of them. It happened so quickly that Michael had no chance to wield the oar.
‘I thought I saw a little excitement through the window.’ Grainger grinned. ‘Mr Whiting, please lie down again in the bottom of the boat.’
Angrily, Michael did as he was told and lowered himself into the cold, oily water.
Grainger inspected Isobel’s wrists. Satisfied that they remained firm, he shifted his attention to Michael. ‘Face down, please.’
‘Ah,’ he added after a moment. ‘Burning, that’s how you did it . . . And here are the matches, what’s left of them. I’ll pocket these.’
Resting the gun so that its barrels lay next to Michael’s downturned face as a warning, Grainger secured his wrists again. Then he did the same with Michael’s ankles. ‘I can see that I need to modify my boy-scout knots. I think three strips of tape on each piece of rope.’ Michael heard Grainger tearing off the strips. ‘And the last one, to make sure you can’t find the join, I’ll tie in a knot itself.’ This, Michael realised, was a deadly trick. Once the brown tape was crumpled up it became even stronger, almost impossible to break, and if it was tied in a knot there would be no join to prise apart. Grainger stood up and slammed the cabin door behind him.
Soon Michael heard the engine being started up and the launch was moved out into open water. The estuary was breezier than the river had been, the wind sweeping uninterrupted across sand and water, and the launch began to dip and rise on the small waves.
For half an hour the launch beat into the wind and it got even colder in the boat. Then Michael felt them slow again, and stop. He heard Grainger move forward to the prow, and felt the shudder and rattle as the anchor chain slithered overboard. For a moment the only sound was the breeze and the slapping of the water against the hull. Then the cabin door was opened again.
‘Whiting?’
Michael grunted.
‘Okay. In a moment I am going to take off the tape around your mouth – there are some answers I need from you. Before I do, however, you should know two things. One, the boat-hook is now resting against Miss Sadler’s thigh.’ There was a movement, then a muted gasp from Isobel as Grainger jabbed her with it. ‘Two, we are anchored near Fitzwilliam Point in the middle of the estuary. We are about a mile and a half from the nature reserve on Brownsea Island and the nearest house is over a mile away. The nearest boat with anyone on it is, I should say, six hundred yards. Once I take the tape off your mouth, there is obviously no point in your yelling but if you do I can promise you that whatever you shout will be drowned by Miss Sadler’s screams. Is all that understood?’
Michael grunted again.
He was rolled over on to his back. A pair of scissors was roughly wedged under the tape stuck to his cheek. The tape was sliced. Roughly, Grainger pulled it all free. Michael winced as a piece of skin on his lower lip was taken off. He felt blood seep into his mouth. He sucked in gulps of air.
It was the first chance Michael had had to study Grainger close to, in daylight. He was struck immediately by his intelligent – his wickedly intelligent – eyes. They were small for such a large face, but restless, aware. There was also something else in those eyes. Something that Michael couldn’t quite put a name to.
‘Now,’ said Grainger. ‘I have some questions. If you answer them honestly and fully, you can have some coffee and a sandwich I bought when I was ashore in Wareham.’
Till then, Michael hadn’t given food a thought. Now he realised how hungry he was. Isobel must be feeling the same way.
‘Have you been in touch with the police at all?’ Grainger asked. His voice was harsh, higher pitched than Michael expected in such a tall man.
Should Michael tell the truth, he wondered? If he pretended the police were on Grainger’s trail, maybe he would panic. Then again, if the police were really in on everything, why hadn’t they been at the church in Pallington? He decided to add no embellishments. ‘No. We thought about it but, in the end, decided against it.’
‘Hmm. And how did you find out my identity – after I had taken the picture?’
‘Helen Sparrow told us the design she uncovered looked like a coat of arms. We figured you had to visit the College of Arms and on which day you had to have been there. With a little trickery we managed to see the college register. We got your name there. You’re an author, Dr Grainger, and we found one of your books. That led us to the Royal Institute of History where a little burglary produced the number of Peverell Place Hotel.’ Michael couldn’t resist a triumphal tone in his voice. They had been clever.
‘Ahh. Burglary. I can’t complain, I suppose. You were clever there. Allow me to congratulate you. Now, one last question. Who, if anyone, have you talked to about me? Anyone else here in Dorset? In London?’
This time Michael had to lie. ‘Well, there’s my partner, Gregory Wood, of course. He knows all about you. There’s the man we bribed at the College of Arms: he knows who you are now. We asked the vicar of Pallington if a Dr Grainger had visited his church recently.’
Grainger played with the roll of tape. He smiled. At least, he smiled with his mouth. His eyes didn’t smile. They bit into Michael like boat-hooks. ‘You’re over-egging it, Whiting. You seem to have told the whole world about me. You have been busy. Well, I think you’re lying. I called your office the other day and spoke to Wood. I introduced myself as Grainger. I asked if you had left any messages for me. He said no, then added: “What is this in connection with?” You’re lying, aren’t you? Isn’t he, Miss Sadler?’
Michael heard Isobel whimper in pain above him. ‘Okay, okay, I’m lying. The only person who knows is Helen Sparrow.’ There was a silence. Michael watched as more tape was unravelled. He played for time. ‘What about the coffee?’
Grainger smiled his cold smile. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Think about coffee, think about food. Now I’ve mentioned it, you won’t be able to take your mind off it.’
Just then, Michael realised what it was in Grainger’s eyes that he hadn’t been able to put a name to. Now he could. It was vanity. A form of smugness. Grainger was not only very intelligent, he was very aware of that intelligence in himself. Pleased with it. Some very bright people were like that. He was one of those intelligent people who despised anyone less sharp than themselves. Suddenly, Michael realised how it must have destroyed Grainger to be publicly humbled at Oxford. At once, it explained his single-mindedness, his sadism and his violence.
It also gave Michael an idea.
‘I wasn’t beaten! You’re the one who’s tied up.’
But Grainger had spoken too quickly. And the glint in his cold eyes told Michael he had scored a direct hit. He pressed his advantage.
‘I’m a gambling man, Dr Grainger, and I’d wager a sandwich to a Sandby that you would have given anything to have been the one who found that box last night, not us. You started weeks ahead of us – and we still got there first.’
‘You had the picture!’
‘Only until you stole it. But you had two weeks’ start on us – and still you lost. Like you lost at Oxford.’
‘Shut up, Whiting!’ Grainger glared at Michael. ‘Shut up.’ He took several large breaths, as though he was preparing to strike Michael. But then he calmed down. ‘You’re right, Whiting, damn you. Nothing would have given me greater satisfaction than to have discovered the cavity for myself . . . On the other hand, I listened to you and Miss Sadler talking before I . . . interrupted you. And you don’t know what you’ve found, do you? You have no idea what the skulls and rings mean.’
Grainger paused, looking from Michael to Isobel and back to Michael. ‘No. You’re as much in the dark as you were in the church last night.’ He grinned his grin. ‘But I know. You two think you’re pretty clever but I’ve been in this business all my life. As we have been motoring downstream, I’ve worked out the last move in this little game of ours. It wasn’t immediately obvious what the skulls and rings added up to, but I’ve got there now. After all, I can read these signs and symbols as easily as I shall read your obituaries.’